Hawk Tamer
by Katrina in Starlight
Summary: FinishedIsolde. Even the wind whispers her name to me. In the silence of the night, or the strained quiet before battle, when all others hear only their own breath and pounding hearts, I hear her name. It haunts me until I am never without it.
1. Flight

A/N: I don't know why I wrote this or why I wrote it the way I did. In fact, I'm not even sure what this _is_. But…I guess my head just wont let me out of it. I _think_ (again, don't ask me) that this is one of those evil type flashbacks. You know how they say your life flashes before your eyes when you die? Well, I think this is what Tristan gets at the end of his life. Isolde was in the original legend, but since Tristan is different, so it she. And, I have no idea _why_ it's written like this. It feels choppy and in the wrong tense to me but I just can't seem to do it any other way. Reviews not expected. Mostly because it feels too much like a half-a effort. Go figure.

Disclaimer: If I owned it, Tristan would have lived. He didn't. Guess who doesn't own it?

_Isolde_. Even the wind whispers her name to me. In the silence of the night, or the strained quiet before battle, when all others hear only their own breath and pounding hearts, I hear her name. It haunts me until there is never a time when I am without it.

I wouldn't want it any other way.

Isolde was the one who made me into who I am today. I know the others would disagree, they have never seen me any differently, but I know that she made me.

I came to this land, like all the others, because of who my grandfathers where, who they fought, who they killed. A slave bound by ancient glory.

She was a slave of a different kind though. She never knew her parents, and her history was a mystery even to her. One morning she found herself on the side of the road, blood crusted at the corner of her mouth, a knot on her head, and only a dim idea as to who she was.

We were still new to this country when I found her, but our newness was like hers in a strange way. But again my thoughts get ahead of me.

I was always quiet and I always found myself doing more tracking and reconnaissance than the others. I enjoyed being alone. Or rather, I hated being alone, as it were, but I felt more comfortable staying at the edges, knowing the others would save me if it came to that, but at the same time cutting myself out a bit from their intertwined lives and jokes. I was one of Arthur's knights without grouping myself in the midst living legends like Lancelot.

It was within our first years in this country when I was sent to find the numbers and weapons of a group of soldiers, who, like us, were serving for reasons other than desire. I wished, secretly and internally, that I wouldn't find them. I knew nothing of them, but they found themselves in the same position I did, slaves to another mans empire. I was willing to idolize their bravery in taking their lives back and question the morality of killing them.

Until I met them, that is.

It doesn't surprise me anymore that they caught me sneaking up on them. After all, they were experienced in the dangers of the land, and were expecting to be hunted down. It's no wonder that they detected me from a mile a way. The amazing thing is that I got away with my life.

With them pounding down the trail behind me, well-aimed arrows pursuing me even more closely, I fled. I can still remember cursing my own clumsiness, my horses vicious gait, the trees, the sky, the birds…anything I could think of. I was being hunted by the best, and we both knew it.

It surprised me then, when I saw a girl about my age at the side of the road. There were tears on her face, made cloudy by blood and dirt. It surprised me that I slowed my horse enough to pull her up behind me.

It surprised me that I could.

It surprised me that she didn't scream. It surprised me even more when she just sat behind me; my shoulders clenched tightly in her hands, surprised me that she introduced herself.

This was Isolde.

I don't know how long we continued that made dash; it seemed interminable and instant all at once. Somewhere in that instant era, her thin dirty hand came into my peripheral vision, pointing at a grove of trees on the right. I didn't even think to question it, occurring to me only later that there was no reason for her to help me or me to help her, for that mater.

But with out hesitation, I charged into those trees. There was a trail of sorts there but if she had not known it, I would not have seen it. The same went for my pursuers. They passed us by without even a glance at our unlikely cover.

That was the beginning of complicated friendship, that little grove. We stayed there until we saw the men return, weary and unsuccessful, hours later. Having gotten their entirety to chase me, I got better information on their strength than I ever could have lurking through the trees. In the end, we wiped them out.

I say that was the end, and if it was, then I have lived through more ends than I have a right to. My fighting is never at an end. I feared, at one time, that even in death I would be fighting. Isolde taught me in that as well.

She was a different sort of person. Like all the women I ever have and ever will meet, she seemed to like being saved but fully understood that she could save herself. Yet, there was something mysteriously deep and powerful about her that intrigued me without effort.

In that grove, we spoke to each other quietly, without pretence or witnesses. Again she introduced herself, seeming less sure of it this time, as if it were a question. I told her I was Tristan.

I watched as she tried the name out, tasting it, turning over with her tongue. Head cocked in puzzlement, she met my eyes directly. That was something I had never had anyone do. Not even Bors had yet met my gaze. "Do I know you?"

"No." I replied, feeling a supernatural shiver race down my spine. Her eyes were empty and full at the same time. She had a soul that looked back at me, but at the same time a strange desolateness there as well.

"I've never met you?"

"I…I don't think so." It was unlike me to be nervous, but her question seemed double edged. "I've never seen you before."

Her eyes slid from mine to the trees around us, drinking in the dark trees and icy patches as if they were previously undiscovered wonders. There was an almost child-like innocence to her search. "Where are we?"

"In the valley just south of the wall." I said, somewhat surprised. Was it not she who had known of this hollow in which we know sheltered? "The river is that way…" I pointed to my left, but I wasn't sure. "Or maybe it's there." I altered my indicator further beyond her shoulder. She looked both places and then told me it was to my right.

"How can you not know where you are one moment and then show me a river the next? How do you know where the river is? How did you even know to come to these trees?" I was indignant and it made my voice harsher than it should have been.

I was shocked to discover that she cowered away from me, that there were tears forming in her eyes. It was as though she were a different girl than the one who had ridden here with me.

"I don't know." She said. Her voice was small and she pulled her knees into her body even as her hand went to the back of her head. She winced.

I began to understand that she really didn't know. She wasn't even sure who she was, that's why it had mattered that I know her.

Before I could restrain myself, I was at her side assessing the damage. She looked at me mistrustfully, scooting away before dropping her eyes to my sword. She may not be sure of her identity, but she did know what a man with a sword was and what most of them would be moving to her side in an abandoned wood for. I couldn't bring myself to tell her that I wouldn't hurt her, because saying it meant that I could, if provoked. Instead I lay my weapons down and when I approached her again, she allowed me to remove her hand from her head.

Against her scalp and matted in her dark hair were dried crusts of blood. Beneath it I could feel a knot larger than she could have inflicted her self. Someone had found her before I had, and they hadn't been as neutral towards her as I was.

With my sleeve I wiped the blood from her nose and mouth, she even allowed me to pull her lips up and see that her teeth were intact. I asked her to move her hands, arms, feet, legs…anything I could think of that could have been broken. She seemed fine. But then there were the questions I dared not to ask. A girl, alone and weaponless…

"Are…are you hurt anywhere…else?" I struggled to find the right words and it showed.

She blushed and shook her head. After all, she knew herself well enough to know that she was in a relatively uninjured state.

Having set my mind at ease, and having nothing better to do until the men rode back to their camp, I set about finding the threads of her memory.

She'd said her name was Isolde. Who was her family? Where did they live? What did they do?

"I don't know. I don't even know if that _is_ my name. But I woke up out on that road and I knew that I was cold and alone, that that wasn't were I belonged. I saw your horse come thundering down, and all I could think was 'maybe he can tell me where to go.' But I never expected that you would be so pursued or that I would go with you. When I saw you, I knew you were the rider I would rather had picked me up, not those…" She said a word I didn't recognize, but I didn't stop her to ask about it. "The name just came to me, just as though my tongue knew what to do better then I did."

So I found that she knew trees and nature better than she knew he name.

I would discover much more about her in the days that followed.


	2. Crimson

A/N: this thing has three parts, all written at the same time. I don't really see this going anywhere but…apparently there are three parts to it. Oh well. Oh, and thanks for the reviews!!! Confidence is always a good thing to gain. This ends at a completely random place. Don't ask.

Late that night, I rode back into our camp. Months ago we had been set free of our overlords, the experienced soldiers who had, until then, ridden with us, easing us in to combat and exploration over the years. And the transition _was_ gradual, however strange that sounds. They wouldn't let us do anything that may threaten their lives unless they trusted that our skills were passable.

So I rode back in to camp, after the first recognizance I had ever done alone, to an Arthur who had always had his Roman back up, with a girl on the back of my horse. I can still see the shock and anger in the faces around me. Dag looked on with stunned pride, Bors' mouth hung open, Galahad was embarrassed for me, Lance was jealous, and Gawain just stood staring, sword partially drawn. But Arthur was by far my biggest concern.

He stalked across camp to me, cloak billowing behind him, eyes taking in our collective dirt and scratches. It had been a treacherous ride home, and I guessed I must look in about as bad condition as my passenger did by now. But though I expected him to be angry, I was unprepared for the situation I now found myself in.

Arthur swaggered up, he was still young enough and new enough to his position to swagger, and stared at me as though I were a frog who had taken to riding rather than a returning scout. I gave my report concisely and quickly, wishing for nothing more than a good night's sleep and for Isolde to stop clinging on to me so tightly.

But it was then that I found she _was_ clinging. Not as she had on our mad dash, not even as she had when we had had to dismount and slither across the downhill mud trail. She was shrinking behind me in fear of…something.

Arthur took my words without reaction other than to look at the only partially visible figure behind me. I had not mentioned her yet, and I assumed that Arthur would need to know her story as well. I opened my mouth to explain, but Arthur was already moving forward.

I think he meant to offer her a hand down, but she would have none of it. In fact, as soon as his hand had left his side an unearthly scream had ripped through her. We all jumped, horse included. She had buried her head into my back and I could hear her ragged breathing.

Arthur looked at me questioningly, and I resisted the urge to rub my ringing ears. If we were ever in need of an alarm that would carry, all we would need to do was ask Isolde to scream. She still wouldn't release me and I decided her fear was directed at Arthur, who, if anything, looked the least threatening of all of us.

But he was also the only one wearing his roman issued cloak.

Insight burst within me. She would rather have gone with me than them because _they_ still looked roman. Arthur was a sign of danger because _he_ wore red as well.

My horse still pranced beneath me, searching for the banshee noise, but I ignored him and pulled away from her enough to dismount. I was afraid for a moment that she would topple down after me or gallop off with my horse. But she sat there looking at the fluttering red and rubbing her arms. If I hadn't known of the bruises that lay beneath those sleeves I would have thought it was from cold. Her voice came out ferial and low, defensively it seemed. "Don't you let him touch me."

I wasn't sure if she meant me as well, but what could I do? "Alright." I swallowed. "Alright." I held my hands up to her to help her down. After a moments hesitation she took them and dismounted.

Then what was I supposed to do? I led my horse towards my belongings, all too aware that no one had moved or spoken and that Isolde was, once more, pressed right up against me.

I almost jumped out of my skin at the rumble behind me. I turned to find Bors laughing louder than I thought possible. The others went back to their own chores, except for Lance, who was dividing his stare between Arthur and I, and Arthur himself.

He was standing there, looking after me as though I'd grown two heads and called him mother. "Tristan." His voice was somewhat higher, though it stove for conversational. "I'd like to talk to you when you're done." With a silent, assenting nod, I turned and continued my trek.

I left her there; with my horse blanketed and tethered by her side, my dagger in her hand and my spare blanket made hers. Arthur stood some distance off, close enough to see us but far enough to be a minimal threat. I almost wished he'd walk away and spare me the 'shouldn't fraternize with bar maids', 'shouldn't bring people back to camp', 'should have known we expected you back promptly' speech.

But, I couldn't avoid it. All I could do was stand there and take it. "Tristan…" He began, "What happened?" So I told him about being sighted, about hiding in the trees. I skimmed over our conversation though, telling him only that she didn't know who she was other than the name 'Isolde'. And I told him I was almost positive the men who had beaten her were the very Romans we now hunted.

He took it all very seriously, and it was then that I decided that his swagger was merely the result of years of training, and that he would be a good friend and leader to us all. He said that she could stay as long as she was neither distraction nor hindrance, but he would not call her a prisoner, nor would he allow others to hurt her. When we found a place for her to live she would be free to go. He made no reference to her fear of him, but he also made no move to approach her. I could see that he was willing and able to be a reasonable roman.

Isolde was less inclined to believe him, but it was hard for me to tell just then how much she comprehended about Arthur's, or my own, function in Britain.

We sat there, apart from the others but a part of their camp, in front of a small fire. Her eyes still searched everything around her, from her own hands and clothing to the shadowy hills and distant stars, as though willing them to become familiar.

It must be hard, I thought, to not know where you are or who you are. To rely on or fear a man based on the clothes he wore. To fear based on a flash of memory and pain. To lose who you were and be stuck with trying to find out who you are.

She shivered and without thought I handed her the closet thing that came to my hand. I had lain back and was staring now into the sky, so lost in my thoughts I hardly remembered that I too had the cloak of a roman in my belongings.

She took the cloth from my hands without a word and my eyes never left the sky to see her reaction. I only realized my mistake long minutes later when she began to speak.

"I remember that." I looked over to find her gaze lost in the crimson cascade in her hands, fingers blindly tracing the folds and seams. "I remember their hands coming down on me. I tried to fight them; I pulled at their cloaks and hair…anything I could get my hands on. The one…He wanted to keep for the night. I screamed at him and I kicked him but he pulled me down in that ditch. He was…he was…he almost…"

I sat up and put a hand on her shoulder tentatively. She took a breath and continued. "His brother came though, and pulled him away. He said there wasn't enough time. They'd already beaten me…I could taste the blood. But then he was gone and I thought…I thought I could go…somewhere." I could tell she was having trouble recalling it now, but it scared her just the same. "And then I don't know anything until I saw you and all that red…"

"I'm sorry."

"But you're one of them." She said with far less emotion than she had told her story with. It was a fact that she couldn't change, but it seemed as though she didn't know how to treat it. "Would you…" She tore her eyes from the material to look at me. "Would you put it on?"

I couldn't believe what she was asking, but if my ears had deceived me there was no mistaking the way she held it out to me. Demanding. I stood and fastened it to the armor I never removed. She looked at me still with the full empty eyes and I felt foolish. I sat back down, leaving the cloak in place.

"It doesn't suit you." She said. I was glad and told her so. That night, just as in the glade, we found ourselves talking long into the darkness, about everything and everything. Plants, animals, snippets of dreams and memories, homes neither of us could see again. She remembered only the warm eyes of a mother and the strong voice of a father, while my stories were full of distant cousins, brothers, sisters and grandparents.

The next day we destroyed the men who had hunted us both, and I will never forget the way she stood over him afterwards with tears slipping off her face on to his.

I stood beside her, dripping blood as readily as she dripped tears. "That's him." She said. There was no need to elaborate. "That's one's his brother." She pointed to another.

"Do you feel better now?" I asked. I don't know why, but it seemed the right thing to say at the time.

"I don't know." She said honestly. "They scare me, even dead they scare me. But I'm almost sad they died. Is that natural?"

I didn't know.


	3. The Tamer of Hawks

A/N: Here it is, the last part. Since I didn't really mean to write this, I can't say if I'll ever write more in this section. But, I'm seeing the movie again on the 30th so…maybe. Warning: Slash reference. Also, this part seemed particularly fond of producing fragments and ellipses…

Disclaimer: I still don't own it. That's a bit depressing.

With their deaths, she began her life over again. She lived with us for two years, proving herself time and again with both dagger and bow. She gradually lost her avoidance of the Roman red, although she never fully trusted Arthur and his continuous attachment to it.

In those years, we both did as we had that first night. We sat apart and watched as the intricate ties spread between the others. We watched as Bors rejoiced in the birth of his first child. We watched as Arthur and Lance turned to each other for comfort after battle, after deaths, after...everything. We watched as Dag made peace with his amazing collection of scars. We watched it all.

And when we didn't watch, we taught each other. She knew more about nature and tracking than any man I had ever met. Almost without effort she could walk up and startle any of us. This is what she taught me to do. Without her, I'd have been killed many times over by now.

The others never knew that she did this for me. They saw only that the two of us were always at the edges. As far as they know, I have always been able to find the trails and see the signs they would have passed by.

But I taught her as well. I taught her about people and life in general. Things she knew from somewhere but couldn't understand. I taught her everything I knew, from the names of my mother and father to the names of the constellations above us.

For those two years, she traveled with us. I lost count of the times she tended my wounds or I hers, both mental and physical.

It was strange, the way we relied on the other. That first night, I had awoken to find her curled by my side. The second night it was the same. Neither of us said a word about it, taking into account, of course, that we were both cold enough to long for the shared heat. But by the third night, it was warmer and neither of us got any sleep, knowing the other was across the fire, not side by side.

So I was not alone. A loner who never had reason to be lonely. And Isolde seemed to like it better that way.

She was never supposed to go out with me, when I was scouting, and so I didn't know what she did those days when the man and horse she'd gotten used to were gone, but she never seemed the worse for it. Of course she was glad when I got back, but I can't imagine that she had not spoken to the others for all that time. But, one afternoon, I found myself returning earlier than anyone ever would have expected and discovered yet another hidden facet of her personality.

We had relocated by that time to a deeply wooded hill. As I rode through the trees, I thought I heard her voice calling me. I couldn't be sure, but being on edge from my hunt and fearing, just a little, that it could be some demon, I didn't reply. Instead, I rode closer to where I now heard her voice speaking, only to catch a glimpse of her through the trees.

She sat on one of the larger boulders in the area, completely absorbed in whomever it was she was talking to. Curious, I dismounted and made my way stealthily to the edge of the clearing she had selected as meeting place. I stood there, leant against a tree, and watched a miracle.

She sat contentedly speaking to one of the fiercest animals I had ever seen. Perched on her thickly sleeved arm was a hawk, listening to her voice with an attentive cock to his head. His beak worked with little snaps though he made no move to bite her. His talons shifted against her as he walked his way closer to her head but he must have been careful about them, because she never once winced.

Just below her shoulder, he stopped and stared at her with an almost protective, appraising eye. She looked happy, and I was glad to see it. Shocked, yes, but glad. The wind came up behind her and her hair blew halo-like around her face and ruffled his feathers. With a click he captured a lock of her hair and gave her a chiding ruffle of his feathers, as though it were her fault her hair had come to attack him.

She laughed and he released her. She looked up then, to see me looking back from the tree, and she blushed as though I'd caught her writing love letters. "How long have you been there?"

"I just got here."

"But I thought you weren't going to be back for a few days."

"I thought so too. What are you doing?"

"Taming a hawk." She said, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "I…I thought you might be able to use him." She was blushing again. "I'll train him to come to you."

"How? I mean, how did you ever get him to come to you?"

"They've always come to me. I mean, every time you've gone, he's come to me. He used to just sit over my head and screech, but now I've gotten him tame enough to sit on my arm. Do you want to hold him?" Her eyes were bright with hope. "I was going to give him to you when you got back anyway."

"But…" I was completely lost. "But…How?" I felt like a three year old begging to know how to get on a horse.

She smiled. "Just hold out your arm." I did. Before I knew what was happening, the hawk was standing inches from my nose, giving me the fiercest look I've ever received.

It was magic.

Over the next months She trained us both to get used to the other. I don't know how. I would go far from camp and he would fly between us, baring information faster and with more accuracy than I ever could.

He was like our child.

During the winter, two years after she'd arrived, she would leave us. Both, all three of us really, knew it was coming. That winter, she just couldn't seem to avoid illness…as though she were the new target on the archery field.

So many times I'd begged her not to go, but she couldn't promise. "It's not as bad as that." She said. "I don't mind dieing. And I know that they wont separate us." I loved her for saying it. I loved her for meaning it. I loved _her._

And I wished I could be as brave as she was. I, who placed my life in danger every day, was afraid to die. If the gods had fated me to spend my life fighting for no cause I believed in, would they let me have peace in death? I didn't think so.

The night was cold and she was so frail…I sat there all night feeding the fire and holding her as the hawk swayed on my shoulder and preened her hair.

In the morning she was still warm in my arms, but there was no longer a soul there. She looked like she had fallen asleep but the hawk and I…we knew. But she was so peaceful, so insistent that we would see each other again, I wasn't afraid any longer.

So the hawk and I lived on. We carried our information and sat together on the outskirts. We worked together and we remembered Isolde. The tamer of hawks and trainer of men. Having him with me was like having her as a constant companion. As though he listened to her soul and did what he could to please her as he flew.

There were so many times he acted with human intellect and emotion; I couldn't help but believe it.

I knew I would die. And, the strange thing was, I didn't mind. I was saddened not to be allowed to go home, but I wasn't bitter. I would find peace. So I let him fly away. I told him to. I knew that she would be there and I would go to her. If her beautiful disciple could be saved, I felt it was all reward I was fit to give.

Pain doesn't matter anymore. Death is here, and still I don't mind. I rejoice. Above me, I see his wings circling and I hear his voice screaming. Rage and pain, loss and promised vengeance. A strange song of an even stranger bird. He is saying goodbye, I realize.

Goodbye.

Softer and distant I hear her voice calling me. Slowly it replaces the sound of battle around me, just as the image of her by that lake where we first confessed our love replaces his wings.

A last shriek echoes around the canyon I now inhabit, releasing me from my pain and grime…almost from gravity itself. It reverberates for a long sorrowful moment until I fold my beautiful Isolde in my arms. Then there is no need for it.

I left sorrow behind forever in favor of a life with Isolde.

My hawk tamer.


End file.
